


A Beautiful Heap of Nothing

by TakeASadSongAndMakeItBetter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Angst, Fluff, M/M, destiel au, maybe some smut idk yet, writer!Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:05:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeASadSongAndMakeItBetter/pseuds/TakeASadSongAndMakeItBetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak considers himself a failed author. No one believes in his book, not even himself. Well, that's what he thinks...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When the Cold Sets In

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first super long fic... I hope you guys like it! Constructive criticism is always welcome! Enjoy, my friends :)

The wind was annoyingly cold against Castiel’s worn sweater as he pushed against it, clothing flapping stupidly around him. He must’ve looked like a mess, his naturally tousled black hair sticking up at odd angles. The thick-framed glasses perched so carefully upon the bridge of his nose were slightly askew. He searched the stack of papers he carried with him for something as he walked, smoothing them occasionally to try to keep them straight and legible. His tennis shoes padded softly against the cement, taking him swiftly around the corner. Suddenly, Castiel slammed into something large and bulky, sending him to the ground with a smack. His papers flew everywhere in a dizzying cascade of confetti.

“Damn!” he heard a gruff voice shout from the large, human-shaped, blurry blob somewhere in the center of his vision. He realized with growing horror that he had lost his glasses in the fall. After a moment, Castiel snapped out of his temporary shock, seeing that the person he had run into was trying to give him a hand. Gently disentangling himself from the floor, he let himself be pulled up by the figure, eyeing it warily. “Man, I’m sorry. I didn’t even see you coming. Are these your glasses?” the voice seemed very concerned and embarrassed, “I got most of your papers, but a few of them flew away… I hope they weren’t too important…”

Castiel took his much-needed glasses from the hand of the stranger and slipped them back on his nose, letting the world come back into focus. Once everything was clear again, he took in his accidental assailant. The man who stood before him was taller than him, but not by much, his broad shoulders making up for his height. Where Castiel was a little below average height (and skinny as a children’s book), the green-eyed stranger was tall and slightly muscular, most of his bulk covered by several layers of clothing. A small, silvery amulet hung around his neck.

And dang. That ass should be kept under lock and key.

The man smiled shyly and ran a hand attractively through his blondish hair before sticking it out in front of him for Castiel to shake.

“Dean Winchester,” he beamed, “Sorry to have been in your way a moment ago.”

“Uh- I’m Castiel,” the disgruntled man replied carefully, trying not to look at Dean Winchester’s shoulders, “and it's fine,” he added. It was an afterthought.

“Castiel,” Dean tried out the name on his tongue, rolling it around and spitting it gently out, “Unusual name. I like it,” he winked. Castiel's eyes widened as he blushed a furious red. Suddenly, he turned tail and ran in the opposite direction. Screw it, he’d just take the long way to the bookstore. As he sprinted down the street in full stride, he was vaguely aware of Dean calling after him.

<><><><><>

“You forgot your papers!” Dean shouted over the wind, but the strange, dark-haired man was already gone. He sighed. Exasperated and deflated, he looked down at the mismatched script that lay limp and unimpressive in his hand. Miraculously, the title page had managed to stay on top. He read it.

_A Beautiful Heap of Nothing_

By Castiel Novak

So the man was an author. Dean had always heard that authors were strange people. Now he knew his friends weren’t just verbally desecrating the high intelligence they lacked.

But what now? His mind reeled as he kept his eyes fixed on the small stack of paper. It obviously was not important enough to turn around for, but he couldn’t bring himself to discard them. The absent man's manuscript looked like hard work and dedication, a feeling that Dean knew well. _How different are machines from books, anyway?_ he thought, _They both contain a piece of someone’s soul._

Dean gazed down at the slightly crumpled paper. The writing, seemingly unpublished, looked interesting enough. Flipping through the pages until he came to the first, Dean sat down on a nearby bench and began to read.


	2. Burning Bridges

Castiel flopped into the worn swivel chair behind the counter of the bookshop and sighed, his head in his hands. _Nice going, Novak,_ he thought to himself, _you just made a complete fool of yourself in front of yet another beautiful person._

The awkward man seemed to do that frequently. In the course of his lifetime he had embarrassed himself in front of plenty attractive and perfectly acceptable people, seeming to save his sanity for the ones just like him: awkwardly skinny and usually sweater-clad. Because of this, he contented himself with the yellowed paper that littered the floor, spilling out his lonely onto their inviting pages in the form of gooey ink.

He snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of the door opening with a telltale jingle. His head shot up, expectant of a customer, but it was only Hester, his best friend and co-worker. Through the years she had been the only attractive person he had ever landed, even if he only landed her as a friend.

“Sorry I’m late, Cassy,” she said as she walked, sweeping through the store just like every other morning. When she reached the desk, she dropped her well used green messenger bag carelessly behind the counter. Turning towards him still seated in his swivel chair, she leaned one hand on the counter, the other on her hip, and looked at him expectantly.

“Spill.”

“Spill what? You just saw me.” Castiel said defensively.

“I caught your face a moment ago,” she said, “Now spill.”

Castiel sighed, not for the first time that day, “It's nothing, Hester. I just had a slight run in with a stranger. That’s all.”

“Come on, Castiel,” she smiled knowingly, “It was more than a ‘slight run in.’” she emphasized the last words, ridiculing them. “Wait, where’s that copy of your manuscript you promised me yesterday?”

Crap. “I- uh- dropped it,” he stuttered, wincing. _It’s true,_ he thought.

She sighed, nonplussed. He could tell she didn't believe him. When she opened her mouth, he was sure she was going to laugh, mock the plunder she couldn't have known about. He braced himself.

“You forgot it, didn’t you.”

Relief flooded over him and he forced the tension in his shoulders to relax, “Yeah, must have.”

“Just bring it tomorrow,” she said, moving from her expectant position and patting him on the shoulder. She always did this after he had disappointed her, and he knew he was forgiven.

She turned and started towards the door marked “Employees Only.”

“Books need sorting.” She noted absent-mindedly, pointing to a stack of paperbacks beside the door without looking back.

Castiel rose from his seat and got to work.

<><><><><>

Dean’s eyes flew hungrily down the page as he read, seated on the hard park bench. As he finished each one, he rummaged quickly through the rest of the stack to find the next. The writing that lay in his hands was beautiful; it took his breath away and left him wanting more. He was almost halfway through the thick stack as the sun started to sink beneath the tall buildings and the words blurred before his eyes. When the reading became impossible, he looked up and squinted at the world around him, dazed. How long had he been sitting there?

He glanced at his watch. Holy crap. He was late.

Shoving the papers into his backpack, Dean sprinted down the street. If he ran fast enough, took enough back alleyways, maybe he could make it in time. Maybe she’d still be waiting there.

Dean turned a corner, dodging an old woman with a strangely pink dog, and smiled as the little restaurant came in sight. It was a small Chinese joint, not too fancy. No, with his pay, he couldn’t afford grandiose meals to treat his girlfriend, though he frequently wished he could.

He admired the small building, crammed in between so many others in the large city. It wasn't much, but he loved the feel of the place, the warm glow of light it cast upon the dark street, the tiny plastic cats waving amiably from the decorated window. It made him feel at home every time he stepped through the door.

Dean bounded up to the entrance, pressing his face up to the glass. He searched for Hannah's bright red hair in the crowd of strangers, but she was nowhere to be found.

He swore under his breath, irritably pulling out his old flip phone. Hannah constantly pestered him to get a new one, but as soon as the conversation started he would end it with a chuckle. He sighed and flipped the contraption open. The bright little screen chastised him from its place in his hand. _Seven missed calls_ , it read mockingly. He swore again. Pressing the small button and raising the phone to his ear, he listened anxiously to the dull tones.

“Dean.” Hannah answered on the third ring. Her voice sounded drawn and curt.

“Hey, Hannah,” Dean replied nervously. There was a pause.

“Where are you?”

“Outside of that restaurant. Where are you?”

“At your apartment," she said. Her tone was soft and deadly. "I'm packing up my things.”

Dean paled. “Come again?” His speech was strained.

“I'm leaving, Dean. I've had enough. We've been together for- what- a year and a half now? And still I can't even get you to stoop low enough to get your head out of those clouds for three seconds and have _dinner_? You do this to me every time Dean. I wait for you everywhere- at home, on dates, at work. You're never here and I'm all alone and I- I just can’t handle it anymore. It hurts, Dean, and-“ she paused, seeming to compose herself, “And I don’t deserve it. I just don't.”

“Hannah-“

“Goodbye, Dean.” The phone went dead.

<><><><>

Dean sat numbly on his lumpy bed. He didn't remember walking home, or climbing the steps to his tiny apartment, or unzipping his backpack and pulling out the dirty, crumpled papers, but there he sat, eyes fixed upon the words that had moved him so.

 He picked up where he had left off.

_"'Goodbye Russell,' she whispered, and turned away from him._

_Russell stared after her as she walked into the moonlight. When his sun had finally sunk over the horizon, he looked up at the stars twinkling down upon him for the first time in ages, and realized how much he had missed them."_


	3. Worlds Colliding

Dean woke that morning feeling refreshed, more so than he had in ages. He sat up and stretched like a cat, reveling in the empty space next to him. 

 _She’s gone, and I don’t care,_ he thought to himself gleefully, _SHE’S GONE AND I DON’T CARE!_

He jumped out of bed and twirled (masculinely, of course) around the room, the freedom of the statement bursting in his veins like pure energy. He sang the words, shouted them, danced to them as he realized their truth. Filled with an unexpected joy, he threw on some clothing and flew out the door. The newly liberated man strutted happily through the city, taking in all the unpleasant sights and smells, and loving every moment of it.

Dean rounded a corner. As he walked he glanced into the numerous stores he never even knew were there the day before, trying to memorize their place in between so many others like them.

It was only by chance that Dean decided to inspect the contents of the bookstore, only a fluke that his head turned at that very moment. But as he passed it, its warm colors aglow in the bright of the day, he glanced through the reflective window and drew in a breath. There behind the window sat the strange man to which the fabled manuscript belonged. He was still wearing the ratty blue sweater from the day before, his glasses forever slightly lopsided on the bridge of his nose as he scribbled something furiously into a worn composition notebook. A steaming mug of something hot was balanced precariously on the knee of his crossed leg. 

 _Wow_ , Dean thought, for a moment blown away by the intriguing and strangely beautiful simplicity of the man. Suddenly, before he knew what he was doing, he was pushing open the door of the bookstore with a jingle of the tiny bells attached to the doorknob. The dark haired man looked up suddenly from his writing, his eyes startlingly blue behind the thick-rimmed glasses.

“Uh- hello,” Castiel said, eyes still wide from the unexpected customer, “How can I help you?”

Dean could tell Castiel wasn’t used to the patronage.

 “Well, I was hoping to get something autographed,” Dean said casually, reaching slyly into his backpack.

Castiel smile faltered slightly in confusion, his head tilting to the side. He would never admit it, but Dean found this extremely adorable. “What were you hoping to get- um- autographed?”

Dean held out the stack of paper. Reaching out a hand warily, Castiel took the papers from Dean’s hand. His eyes widened as he realized what they were.

“But-“ he stuttered, flipping through the pages in disbelief, “how-“ Suddenly, his head shot up in realization. “Wait- you’re that guy! You’re super macho winky man!” His cheeks burned a deep red as the words that had just come out of his mouth replayed in his head in an endless loop.

“’Super macho winky man?’” Dean repeated incredulously, something warm and pleasant bubbling up in his belly. Suddenly, he threw back his head in full-body laughter, unable to resist.

Castiel hid his cheeks in his fabric-covered hands while Dean held his sides, giggling uncontrollably.

“Make it _stop_ ,” the awkward man moaned, which only made his new companion laugh harder.

“I'm- I'm sorry it's just-  _Wow_ ,” Dean sighed, wiping tears from his eyes. Castiel observed from the crack between his fingers that they were a lovely forest green. “I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.”

“Are you finished?” Castiel’s voice was still muffled by his hands.

“I think so,” Dean chuckled slightly. 

“Okay,” Castiel said, hands dropping from his face. His cheeks and ears were still burning though, tinted a light red. “Is it possible for you to forget I said that?”

“No,” Dean smiled.

 Castiel sighed. 

“I read it, you know,” said Dean, changing the subject.

Castiel looked up at him from his swivel chair and winced visibly. “Did you make it to the end?”

“No,” Dean replied, “I was missing a few pages.”

The shy man looked up at Dean with hope in his eyes. Dean continued. “It was amazing- life-altering!”

Cas smiled brightly, sticking out his hand. “It was Dean, right?” 

“Yep. And I had the honor of meeting the notable Castiel?” Dean took the outstretched hand and shook it firmly, sending a jolt of electricity up both of their arms.

“Yeah,” Castiel forced out the word, dropping the hand reluctantly.

Suddenly the door behind the counter swung open, Hester filling it. In her arms was a stack of books so high that they covered her eyes, blocking her vision of the two men. She turned her back on them to set the books down on a nearby table.

“Hey Cassy, when you’re out again, we need more bookbinding-“ she cut herself off as she turned again, her eyes coming to rest on Dean. “Well hello there.”

Dean nodded in greeting, smiling amiably before turning his attention back to Castiel. Hester’s eyes flicked suspiciously between the two of them before coming to rest on the stack of paper lying in Castiel’s lap.

“Is that the manuscript?”

“Oh- uh- yes,” Castiel said quickly, turning his attention towards her. He scratched his head awkwardly, “but it’s missing a few pages-“

“I’m afraid that’s my fault, actually,” Dean interceded, “I stole it for a day to read it. I must have dropped some of the pages somewhere.” 

Castiel could see the wheels turning in Hester’s mind. “That's perfectly alright," she told the green-eyed stranger. She turned back to Casitiel, "I just refilled the printer; why don’t you go out back and get our friend here a better, more complete copy of your esteemed work. I’ll keep him occupied,” she winked.

Castiel didn't want to know what Hester meant by this, so he decided to give into her request. “Alright,” he said cautiously. He eyed them curiously before disappearing through the door.

As soon as he was out of sight, Hester started to rummage through the cluttered desk drawers. Eyes widening suddenly in triumph, she yanked out a stack of lime green Post-It notes. The peculiar woman scribbled something down on the little square before ripping off the top piece and thrusting it in Dean’s direction.

Dean took it warily. When he looked down, he realized it was a little row of numbers.

“It’s his cell phone,” Hester explained, “Don’t call him any time after nine. He’s either writing or sleeping then, and trust me, you don’t want to interrupt him.” They could hear footsteps coming from behind the door. “And remember,” she added, whispering. Her features turned suddenly serious.

“Break his heart, I break your face.”

Dean left with both hope and fear in his eyes.


	4. Coffee at its Finest

Castiel sunk into the ratty couch in his living room with an unimpressive release of air, his thumb wedged into his place in the book he was reading. He closed his eyes momentarily as the embarrassment of the day washed over him, and hid his beet-red face in the book’s yellowed pages.

Suddenly, his cell phone started to ring on the small table next to his seat. He gazed down at it in confusion. The only person who ever called him was Hester, but the number the bright little screen offered him wasn’t hers. He pressed accept.

“Uh- hello.” Castiel said tentatively as he pressed the phone to his ear.

“Hello. This is super macho winky man,” the now-familiar voice said with an air of mock importance at the other end of the line.

Cas blushed even harder, covering his eyes with his free hand even though Dean couldn’t see him.

“Hester gave you my number, didn’t she,” Castiel asked, although he already knew the answer.

There was silence for a moment. Dean seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “Yes,” Dean finally replied, sounding hesitant for the first time since they had met. There was a pause, “Are you… okay with that?”

Castiel felt suddenly unafraid, resigning himself and sitting up straighter in his chair. “Yes- yes, I think I am.”

Castiel could almost hear Dean’s smile, “Good, good. That’s very good. Listen,” he said, “There’s this great coffee shop on Main street that I go to every morning,” he paused, as if gathering up his courage, “Would you- you and me- we could-,” he stuttered. He seemed very frustrated and flustered.

Castiel squeezed his blue eyes shut, bracing himself. He couldn't believe what he was about to do. “YesI’dlovetomeetyoutheretommorow,” he blurted quickly, before he could change his mind.

There was another pause, so long that Castiel thought Dean might’ve hung up.

Suddenly Dean spoke. “Okay,” the other man’s voice was smiling again, “See you then.”

Now it was Castiel’s turn to smile, “See you then.”

<><><><><> 

When Castiel opened his eyes the next day, he knew he had screwed up.

What was he thinking, saying yes to a _date_? He hadn’t been on a date in _years!_ And did it even count asa date? They were just going for coffee!

He mentally scolded himself as he rummaged through his closet, finding nothing but old t-shirts and sweaters. As much as he hated to admit it, he’d only been on one official date in his entire life, and it didn’t end well at all.

He pushed the thought from his mind, still tearing through the unimpressive array of clothing that littered the small room.

 _Screw it_ , he finally thought, grabbing a pair of black pants and a newish-looking green sweater.

He threw them on and swept hurriedly out the door.

<><><><><>

Dean sat in the old coffee shop at a table for two, sipping his black coffee nervously.

The bitter taste blended with the rich smell of the drink filled his senses and calmed him slightly, but his heart rate still refused to slow down.

Why was he feeling so nervous? He’d been on plenty of dates! As he searched his brain for the source of his distress, it hit him like an angry mother. He’d never felt this way before about someone, and it wasn’t just the shy man’s looks.

It was the way his emotions reflected the plot of a novel as his eyes followed the words, the way he covered his face with his hands when it started to turn a deep red. It was his furrowed brow as he scribbled onto his faded black and white composition notebook, unaware of anything around him.

He found himself smiling gently at the memory of this beautiful man he had just met. He mentally slapped himself. _Pull yourself together, man!_ His thoughts were much too loud.

He was acting like a goddamn schoolgirl with a crush.

Suddenly, the door of the coffee shop opened, and Castiel stepped gently through it. Dean felt his face light up against his will as the dark-haired man caught sight of him and walked over awkwardly, slipping smoothly into the chair opposite of him.

Dean reveled in the feeling of Castiel being so close. He stared into his pale face, as if trying to memorize every detail.

“Hi,” the giddy man said, smiling.

“Hello.” Castiel returned the grin.

“Sleep okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied. It was a lie. He had hardly slept at all, instead pouring ink upon his notebook in a frenzy well into the wee hours of the day. “Did you?”

“It was alright.”

“That’s good,” Castiel said, sensing an awkwardness that floated menacingly between them.

“So I finished your book last night,” Dean said, brightening his smile and leaning forward on the table. His coffee steamed gently by his forearms.

Castiel seemed to have a habit of blushing when Dean addressed him. “Is that so?”

Dean nodded.

“How’d you like it?”

“It was beautiful,” Dean said without pause, seeming uncharacteristically shy as the words left his mouth.

Castiel beamed, “Thank you, Dean.”

They fell into conversation, and in a short time, they were talking and laughing like old friends.

“So what do you do?” Castiel was the one leaning easily foreword now, his coffee dangerously close to the edge of the table. “I mean, for a living.”

“I’m a mechanic!”

“Really!” Castiel seemed impressed, “I didn’t really peg you as the ‘getting down and dirty’ type.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively up and down, earning himself an amused chuckle from the man opposite from him.

“No?” Dean laughed slightly, leaning so that his face was inches from Castiel’s. The mood quickly changed. “Cause I am,” his eyes darted down to Castiel’s pink lips and then back up again to his large blue eyes, “It’s a huge hit with the ladies.”

Castiel blushed again, but laughed it off shakily, “Shut up!” he chuckled nervously, not moving away.

“Make me.”

All the finesse washed off of Castiel’s face, leaving it perpetually flushed and shocked. Suddenly something hot and wet spread over his lap, and he jumped up.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, shaking the spilled coffee off his hands and wiping them on his soaked pants.

He looked over at Dean, searching for help, but when his eyes met the mechanic’s face, Castiel found not empathy but a man trying his best not to laugh. Castiel glared at him, and that seemed to set him off, because at that moment Dean Winchester burst into a fit of giggles.

“Your- your face!” he roared.

“Stop it!” Castiel exclaimed, trying and failing to stay mad at a man who’s laugh was so contagious.

“Quit it! I’m serious!” the messy man started to giggle, “You’re making it impossible for me to be angry with you!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Dean said defensively, holding up his hands, but he was still laughing, “Here let me help you.”

Dean pulled a few napkins from the dispenser on the table and stood up, dabbing at the other man’s shirt. Castiel jumped slightly when he first made contact, but then relaxed, staring intently at the man who was now very focused on trying to soak up the now cold coffee.

Suddenly, as if realizing what he was doing, Dean looked up at Castiel, meeting his eyes. They stood there for a minute, staring at each other, as if the mysteries of the universe were held in the dips and shadows of the other’s face.

Without warning, Castiel broke away, clearing his throat. “I’d better get home, he said, “Hester doesn’t like it when I’m late, and I have to change.”

“Okay-uh,” Dean said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes were cast to anywhere but Castiel. Suddenly, as if deciding something, he looked up. “Mind if I walk you there?”


	5. The Friendliest Flower

From that day onward, Dean fell into a routine.

He would wake up, meet Cas at the coffee shop, walk him to the bookstore, go to work, go to the bookstore again after work, and walk Castiel home.

It happened this way for three months; his life moved like a well-oiled machine, all of it revolving around Castiel.

It seemed a little clique, but Dean loved the feeling he got when he saw the skinny writer slide easily into the seat in front of him each morning, reveled in the sight of him disappearing up the steps to his apartment each night.

And man, if he didn’t love the dorky son-of-a-bitch.

He loved everything about the man, from the fire on his tongue he held at bay, to the general goodness of his heart.

One day, as they walked to the bookstore, Castiel caught sight of a little girl selling sunflowers from a basket on the sidewalk. When they reached her, he stopped and bent over to look her in the eye.

“How much for two?” he asked her, kindness in his blue eyes. They suddenly darted from side to side, as if he was keeping watch for anyone who might hear him. He cupped the side of his mouth as if about to convey a secret. “My friend here absolutely _loves_ sunflowers. He’s just too macho to admit it.”

The little girl giggled in delight. “It’s one dollar,” she whispered, “That’s for two.” Suddenly, her brow creased in concentration. “Or at least I think so…”

“One dollar it is!” Castiel exclaimed triumphantly, pulling out his wallet and flipping through the meager stack of green bills it held. He pulled out two dollar bills and a quarter and placed them into the girl’s awaiting hands. Her eyes widened at the extra cash.

“Keep the change,” he winked at her, whispering. She giggled again, placing the money in the pockets of her worn overalls. Reaching into the basket, she produced two sunflowers. She handed one to Castiel and one to Dean.

“Thank you,” Dean told her, slipping the flower into his back pocket and glancing at Castiel tenderly.

“Stay out of trouble, you,” Castiel pointed a finger playfully at the girl as they walked away. She giggled and waved.

Castiel smiled amiably as they walked along, twirling the long green stem of the sunflower absent-mindedly in his hand.

“I’ve always thought sunflowers were the friendliest flower,” he commented gently, a faraway look in his eyes, “So inviting and not lonely at all.”

It broke Dean’s heart to see him like this, “Why would you be lonely, Cas?”

Castiel looked at him, almost startled, as if realizing he was still there. He had a tendency to get stuck in his own little world; a trait that Dean both loved and hated at times.

“Oh, no reason.”


	6. Living on a Prayer

“Safety fact number one,” Dean announced from his place on the floor under a large assortment of fallen hardbacks, “Never place heavy objects where they might fall on unsuspecting passerbys.”

“Safety fact number two,” Castiel countered, not looking up from his work, “Never let blundering idiots inside your bookshop where they might hurt themselves.”

“Touché.”

Dean rose clumsily from the floor and brushed himself off, resigning himself to the task of picking all of the annoyingly misplaced books from the carpeted floor. This would take a while.

It was a beautiful day, perfect for the line of business he was in, but Bobby, his employer, had given him the day off. When Dean walked though the door that morning, the old bearded man glowered at him from underneath his baseball cap and looked him over.

"Damn, boy," he grumbled in his gruff country drawl, "I hardly recognized you with them bags under your eyes. Why don't you go home, get some rest. You can hardly be of any use when you're so darn tired."

Dean almost laughed. Bobby thought he had been working him too hard. If only he knew.

“You guys seem very fond of absolutes lately,” Hester commented absent-mindedly, helping Dean slide the books back into their correct places.

“What can I say? Absolutes have always been my favorite type of literary device.” Castiel winked at her. “They’ve never let me down.”

“Very funny.” Dean murmured humorlessly, his gaze focused on his bruising forearm. “That’ll leave a mark,” he added under his breath.

Castiel chuckled, turning back to his work,“Oh, man up.”

It was silent for a while, the only sounds those of the quiet grating noises of paper against paper. Dean decided to break it.

“My brother is coming to town for the first time since I moved here,” he blurted, “and, since you guys are my pretty much my only friends besides Bobby, I figured you could- uh- meet him.”

They looked up, a little startled.

“I’d love to meet your brother, Dean!” Castiel said after a moment. He seemed genuinely excited at the notion.

“Yes, if he’s anything like you, I’m sure we’ll hit it off just fine,” Hester mumbled, dropping a particularly beefy leather bound with a dull thud.

<><><><><> 

The hours passed without much comment, each of the three going about their own work.

Suddenly, Hester stood up from her spot on the floor and grabbed her messenger bag, slinging it over her shoulder in one solid motion. She dusted herself off as she walked to the door.

“I’m gonna grab some take-out,” she announced, pointing at the two men who sat, peering at her from their places on opposite sides of the room, “You guys want anything?”

They shook their heads no.

“Alright then,” she breathed, stepping carelessly to the door, “I won’t be gone long. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Yeah, that’s not much,” Castiel muttered.

Hester allowed herself a smile as the door swung shut behind her.

<><><><> 

Dean reached over to the small radio that sat quietly behind a shelf and turned it to classic rock soon after Hester left, waiting until she was out of earshot to turn up the dial. He respected her distaste for the oldies, but he didn’t understand it.

When the music first laughed gently in Castiel's ears, he seemed quite startled. He looked up, as if realizing he was still on planet earth and not the world he was painting onto the paper, but soon recovered from the momentary distraction and continued to write. After a while, Dean noticed from the corner of his eye that Castiel was humming, tapping his foot to the songs as they floated through the air. Still, the blue-eyed man kept his focus, unaware of Dean’s eyes on him as he scribbled along to the beat.

Suddenly the radio switched to an all-too familiar tune.

_Tommy used to work on the docks._

_Union’s been on strike_

_He’s down on his luck_

_It’s tough, so tough._

Dean started to smile as Castiel got a little more into it, bobbing his head to the music and mouthing the words.

_Gina works the diner all day._

_Working for her man_

_she brings home her pay_

_For love, for love._

Dean started to sing along to the song, pointing jokingly at Castiel as the words left his mouth. The sound of Dean’s voice caught Castiel’s attention, and he looked up, rolling his eyes playfully when he realized what was going on. A smile slowly crept up into his cheeks as he watched the other man lip-sync Bon Jovi like there was no tomorrow. 

_She says, “We gotta hold on._

_To what we got._

Dean was standing now, walking towards Castiel and beckoning him with one hand. Castiel smiled wider but shook his head.

_Doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not._

Dean danced in circles moving his hips from side to side. The sight was so bizarre that a laugh escaped Castiel’s throat and he covered his mouth with his hands, shoulders shaking with soft tremors.

_We got each other, and that’s a lot for love._

Castiel couldn’t resist. He stood up and screamed the last words, throwing his head back.

_We’ll give it a shot!_

_Woah we’re half way there,_

_Woah! Living on a prayer!_

_Take my hand and we’ll make it a swear,_

_Woah! Living on a prayer!_

Soon the room was filled with the sound of their laughter and loud, off-key voices. They danced, jumping up and down to the beat and pulling imaginary guitars out of thin air. Dean slid onto his knees at the solo, shredding on his air guitar so well that Castiel could't help but applaud when it was over. Later, Dean would look back on this moment as one of his favorite memories.

Suddenly, the sound of someone pointedly clearing their throat pierced the air, bringing the silly procession to a halting stop. Two heads snapped to the door where their recently missing friend stood, soggy Chinese food in hand, looking equally frightened and amused.

"I would never have done that," she said, noticing the stupid grins on their faces and trying not to smile.  _They're so in love,  
_ she thought. The held-back grin decided to leak across her face against her will.

  _It's disgusting._

 


	7. Empire of Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long to update... I've been super swamped with homework and whatnot... Thanks for reading guys :)

Castiel lay upside down on the couch in Dean’s tiny living room, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of fresh spaghetti. It was December 15th, exactly three months and twenty seven days (he had been keeping count) after Castiel had first laid eyes on Dean. It was also the day he would meet Dean’s only family for the first time.

When Castiel had first stepped through the threshold of Dean’s apartment, Dean had welcomed him with a smile that seemed darker than normal and sat him down on the ratty sofa. The writer's heart did a turn when he saw the sadness in the other man's eyes. He wondered what was wrong.

"Listen, Cas," he said softly, "There's something important to tell you before the others get here."

Dean flopped down on the space beside Castiel and sighed, as if bracing himself.

“Before you meet my brother, there’s something you should know,” Dean said solemnly, he stared at a stain on his mistreated walls to avoid eye contact. The mechanic wasn’t big on chick-flick moments, and this was starting to feel suspiciously like one, “My mother died in a fire when I was very young. Gas leak, the police said.”

Castiel’s eyes flicked to Dean with such sadness that if he had been looking at him, Dean would’ve broken down right then and there.

“Even though the police assured my father again and again that it was nothing more than an accident, he was utterly convinced that someone had set fire to our house on purpose. He called the police department every day for  for three weeks trying to convince them of his theory, but they would never buy it.” Castiel put a consoling hand on Dean’s shoulder, trying to offer as much comfort as he could. Dean glanced at him and smiled sadly before looking back at the wall and continuing.

“When he was sure the police weren’t going to believe him, he decided to take matters into his own hands,” Dean swiped a hand slowly over his face as if he was tired of the memory, like one would tire of a particularly rowty child.

“Dad packed up Sammy, who was only a baby at the time, and four-year-old me and spent our childhood on dirty motels and fast-food, dragging us across the country to try and find the lowlife that killed my mother and take revenge.”

Tears brimmed and threatened to escape the corners of his green eyes. “This gained him nothing but a broken family, two super messed-up kids, and an extreme case of alcoholism," his voice rose and cracked, "He got more and more violent when he drank; would hallucinate, thinking me or Sammy or the room was on fire. He would go crazy, batting at the walls and out clothes but he always missed and we ended up with black eyes. And, I know, it sucked when he beat me, but Sammy,” he balled up his fists in his lap, “I wasn’t gonna let that bastard hurt my little brother any more than he already had. So when he turned eighteen, we gathered up all our things, threw them in the back of Dad’s Impala, turned tail, and ran. Since we thought it’s be best to move far apart so that he couldn’t find us as easy, Sammy found a place in Houston, and I settled for this craphole here.” He gestured bitterly to the room around him, his eyes stormy and wet like a typhoon, “It seems to be working so far because it’s been three years since either of us have seen him.”

When Dean finished his speech he didn’t break his gaze of the spot on the wall. Suddenly, Castiel leaned unsurely into him, trying to comfort him in the best way he knew. The tenderness of the action was too much-- Dean let go and cried into his sweater, taking comfort in Casiel’s warmth and smell—ink and paper and something uniquely… Cas. They stayed like that a while before Dean pulled away quickly, as if realizing what he was doing. Wiping his red-rimmed eyes, he stammered, embarrassed, and babbled something about finishing dinner.

Castiel stared at the kitchen door as it swung lightly behind him, and added hurt to all of the emotions he felt for his friend.


	8. Dinner and a Show

The door to Dean’s apartment swung open with a creak.

A loud, slightly slurred voice filled the air with a putrid whine, “Where are you, you sonofabitch.” Dean froze; the cracked ceramic bowl fell from his hands, flooding the white tile with hot spaghetti sauce. No. No it can’t be him, it can’t .

Castiel looked up from his place on the couch, blue eyes wide, alarmed at the intrusion.  Leaning against the doorframe, a worn, beaten shell of a man stood, obviously drunk. Spit flew from his chapped lips and gathered on his greying scruff as he barked.

"WHERE ARE YOU?"

Dean appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, white as the wax on Cas' favorite candle. His voice was soft and his eyes deadly: a faulty mask for the frightened shake behind.

"Get out."

The old man chuckled, drunkenly waving a nearly empty whiskey bottle. "Is that any way to treat your old pops? Especially after he's been away for so long?" His chuckle became wheezy laughter, then descended into fitful coughing. 

"You are not my father." Dean was shaking, his face turning an angry red this time. Castiel feared he might explode. 

"Come 'ere, boy, and I'll make you remember just how fatherly your old man can be," he stumbled towards Dean, fists clenched. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly becoming a child again, preparing to take the pain like so many times before. Beautiful, strong, unfailing Dean. A feeling arose in Castiel's chest, one like he had never known. Without warning, he threw himself in front of the older Winchester.

"STOP!" Silence.

There Castiel stood, a fuming barrier in between the sorry excuse for a father and the scarred man, filled with more fury than he had ever experienced in his twenty-six years. His face burned; the world was tinted bloody crimson.  His underused fist rocketed into the cartilage of John Winchester's snotty nose with a sharp crack, blood spilling from his nostrils. With a cry, the drunk gaped at the flaming writer, holding his leaking nose. The fire in Castiel's eyes was terrifying.

"Leave," Castiel whispered, "and do not come back."

And, just as quickly as he had come,  John Winchester was gone.

It was silent again for a moment longer, then something inside Dean snapped. "Sammy," he gasped, panic rising in his chest. The mechanic fumbled for the old flip phone in his pocket, cursing the tiny, cumbersome buttons. Hot blood raging in his ears, he anxiously listened to the dull tones. 

"Dean?"

"Sammy, Sammy are you okay?" The words left his lungs rushed and breathless.

"Yes, Dean. Jess and I, we're caught in some bad traffic, probably won't make it in until tomorrow," Sam was worried now. He knew that voice, and what it meant. "What happened?"

Dean's shoulders relaxed, "It's nothing, Sammy, don't worry. Stay safe."

"Okay," Sam didn't buy it, but he decided to let it slide, at least for now. "You too." The conversation ended with a click.

Dean suddenly felt eyes on him. Cas.

"Listen Cas, what you did there, I just, I'm sorr-" Castiel threw his arms around the man he would always fight for. The man who was always,  _always_ under his protection. No matter is he had to face a thousand demons, or the devil himself. His knuckles were bloody and bruised, but he didn't care in the slightest.

Dean crumpled into Cas' embrace, burying his face in the man he loved so. Castiel ran his hands through Dean's hair, rubbing his back and holding him closer.

Dean's voice was small in Castiel's soft blue sweater. "Don't leave."

Castiel pulled Dean even tighter.

"Never."

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, GREAT I LOVE YOU STRANGER!:D I'll try to get the next chapter in as soon as possible, so don't lose interest now!


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